Three's A Crowd
by Carter Bishop
Summary: '"We do get birds," she mused. "And trees. Sometimes we even get falling leaves."' Quentin Faulkner, resident almost-Cardiologist and number one on the Stalkers List of Top Stalkees. Avoiding bikers as of three and a half minutes ago. Tig/OC. Rating may change in later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

THREE'S A CROWD

**DISCLAIMER: all recognisable characters, situations and places belong to Kurt Sutter and a little bit of credit to plate tectonics :) All unrecognisable characters, situations and places are copyright of me – once again I cite plate tectonics, you might not recognise the place I mention but it was all the Earths fault, not mine – oh and the people who build the places. They deserve some credit, too.**

**On a serious note, any correlation to real people and events is totally coincidental unless I specifically mention it in an A/N in which case the views are not necessarily that of me but what I think the character is thinking and in no way are that of whoever I mention the character is loosely based on.**

**This disclaimer is for the entire story, however far it goes, but if anything relevant that I have failed to mention here comes up, then I will disclaim it in future notes.**

**Thanks a bunch!**

_Chapter one: We Meet Again. For the First Time. Sort of._

This wasn't where she wanted to be. In fact, Quentin could honestly admit that she would rather be anywhere but at the door to her new boss's office, this early on during her first shift at Tacoma General.

In her opinion, five years at med school and an extra two to specialise in cardiology made her a little more authorized to make important decisions regarding the health of her patients. The Health Administrator for Tacoma General Hospital clearly thought different.

And the cherry on top, the matter wasn't even patient related. No, according to the rumour mill – which was nice and healthy - it was because of a tattoo. One which Quentin ensured was covered at work except for surgeries where make up on ones wrist tended to come off during disinfecting and scrubbing up for theatre.

With a final resigned sigh Quentin raised her half formed fist and lightly wrapped on the white wooden door with the back of her knuckles. Barely a heartbeat later a muffled _come in_ sounded through the solid wood.

_Way to be polite_, she thought as she opened the door and quickly closed it behind her. She hadn't even turned around when the command to sit down was issued with all the smug superiority a Health Administrator inadvertently thought they possessed.

She was momentarily distracted as the sound of a string quartet, accompanied by a soprano no less, began echoing around the room. It was definitely not what she would call comforting background noise.

"This is your fist day at Tacoma General, is it not?"

Her attention snapped back to the desk in front of her. She watched as the grey haired woman perched her glasses to her the tip of her nose and peered over the cheap wire frames down at her. Considering this was one of the people in charge of hiring her she could only assume the question was rhetorical but nodded affirmatively none the less. Better to be safe than sorry.

"Well, I just wanted to make sure you were aware that in the next few months there will be a position open for Head of Cardiology." That got her attention. "Of course, you won't have the experience necessary for the position-"

Quentin felt her previous irritation for the woman return, the brief respite doing nothing but intensifying the return.

"-but it also means that assistant Head of Cardiology becomes open as I plan on promoting Hector to Head. I do, however, feel that the position would be beneficial to you should you be open to it. I will have you know, Dr. Faulkner, you may have graduated with honours and have all the necessary degrees but it takes more than that. I made a few calls and it's your attitude that I find impressive."

She paused, almost to make sure that she was following, Quentin supposed.

"Don't disappoint me." her eyes flickered to the door. _I guess I'm dismissed._

"Thank you," she tried for a grateful smile but was pretty sure it came out as more of a grimace. Without hanging around to see what Dr. Hanson's – not even a real doctor – response, Quentin was out the door and headed back towards the floor that contained recovering cardiology patients.

A quick stop at the desk and she was finally able to do her rounds.

~T.A.C.~

Quentin didn't like surprises. She could barely handle birthday presents let alone unscheduled meetings with Health Administrators but for once in her life, she was happy to look past the surprise of it all and focus on the fact that in just a few short – hopefully – months she, Quentin Gilbert Faulkner, could be Assistant Head of Cardiology.

Her shift had finished right on time, a quick glance at her watch confirmed the time as 3.30 pm, yet another welcome surprise. The only downer was the slight niggling feeling in the back of her head reminding her that three times the charm. A charm she was sure would be no good given her recent good luck.

Unable to shake that thought, Quentin rushed through changing out of her scrubs and grabbing her belongings before heading towards the staff car park out the back of the building. Anyone could call her paranoid – hell, _she_ would call herself catatonic half the time – but Quentin knew she wouldn't feel better until she was sitting at home, sweltering in her underwear with a beer.

Stepping out into the lot, Quentin was too wound up to let out a sigh of relief when she didn't spot anyone in the immediate vicinity. Choosing not to let herself fall into a false sense of security she quickly fished her keys out of her bag while she was still under the relative safety of the hospitals' awning. Once she found them she wasted no time getting to her car, jamming the key in the ignition and screeching out of the car park.

~T.A.C.~

From the cover of the corner of the building, a pair of shocking gold eyes followed the classic Chevelle as it rounded the corner and disappeared down the street. The unusual shade become more prominent as the pupils dilated to almost nonexistence with fascination. It was like a type of hypnotism, pulling all focus onto that one thing and like a vice grip, had no intention of letting go.

The strength it took to remain behind the stack of bricks and cement was physically draining. A small shudder and suddenly the ground was too close, the concrete course and rough under jean clad knees and bare hands.

Blood and sweat, flecks spilt onto the ground and slowly smeared as the hypnotic fascination strangely intensified. It was exciting, slow exhilaration began to build and adrenaline started pumping emphatically.

No, it was evidence. Evidence that could lead to an identity. But this was a hospital, it was only to be expected. Besides, nothing had even happed out in the parking lot, nothing but the vision of so much promise, but nothing that could warrant any investigation.

Nothing had happened and nothing would.

Not yet, at least.

~T.A.C.~

Finally, she could relax.

Home – check.

Underwear – check.

Beer –

The best she could do was a bottle of Johnny Walker and honestly, she didn't mind getting reacquainted with him.

It was only four o'clock in the afternoon. Even though it had only been her first shift at the hospital that morning, the elderly cardiologist she was replacing, LeAnne something or other, wanted to finish out her career in one last solid block of work, putting Quentin on the rotated two weeks off.

Of course, she was considered on call for the entire time because as Health Administrator Karen had reminded her that afternoon, with a phone call as she walked through the door no less, it was still her probationary period and if she wanted to prove herself, she would get her ass back to the hospital as soon as someone said jump.

Obviously it was said a little more formally and there were a lot of important words such as termination and trial scenarios. Her only consolation was that as a rostered night off, it was her last night to relax before hell would officially begin.

To Quentin, this meant drinks and a good book or movie, even playing the piano some. But given that she had just moved from Portland and still had mountains on top of mountains worth of boxes to unpack and two storage units full of furniture for her new house, she figured maybe going out was the better idea.

After all, the unpacking wouldn't be walking away any time soon, and it was certainly something she could put down if she was called into work. Drunk was very hard to put down.

Quentin grabbed the bottle and screwed the lid back on as she moved through the open plan bottom level of her two story home. It was an L-shape, the wider side at the front of the house while the right side of the structure extended back thirty five metres.

The left side contained four spare bedrooms, three bathrooms and the laundry and as you moved up the hallway, the wall facing the yard completely glass, you reached the kitchen. It was black granite tops against white cupboards and stainless steel fittings and appliances – any chefs' wet dream. The island bench was as a large as a dining table with four stools.

Just behind the stools was the actual dining table – a long, thin dark wood bench with tan leather upholstered chairs – and just beyond was the still all glass wall looking out over the lush green grass of the field.

Next to the kitchen lay the entrance hall and just on the other side was the grand staircase up to the top floor. If walking in through the front door, one would see directly down the short side of the L where the lounge room is situated – a high ceilinged room with rich brown leathers and warm beige walls with wall paper accents. The far back wall was lined from floor to ceiling, wall to wall with book shelves and to one side a sliding ladder was pushed out of the way. The adjacent wall which was also adjacent to the dining area was also full glass.

In the centre of the bookshelf wall was an average sized door, also average in appearance. On the other side was a smaller room, the back wall also made of glass as was the roof. The sun room was Quentin's favourite room and one of the main reasons she had dipped into the remainders of her trust to buy the house. It was warm and cosy and perfect for lazy Sunday afternoons – if she got the chance to be lazy that was.

The house had been a snag at only $930,000. The market was on a slump and the house had been foreclosed on the previous owners who had paid close to $5 mil and not been able to afford the repayments. Luckily, Quentin hadn't needed to borrow. She owned it.

Depositing the bottle back into a cupboard set aside specifically for her boys – Johnny, Jack and the like – Quentin headed up the stairs to her bed room.

The top layer consisted simply of a parlour – standard glass wall facing out over the field – and a small hall way that lead to the master bedroom with en suite.

Once in her room, Quentin headed straight for the shower and once she felt the sweat and previous fear run off her body and down the drain, shut off the water and forewent a towel in favour of the ambient heat. It was too hot for towels.

A clean white bra and pair of white knickers were haphazardly tossed onto the king bed as she rifled through the walk in robe for something to wear. She was only considering walking down to the main road – in all honesty, further than she would want to walk on a normal day but in this heat? – and finding a bar where she could maybe play a few rounds of pool, have a couple of drinks and maybe find a person or two she could chat with on other days.

Coffee people.

She settled on a white t-shirt and light blue high waisted skirt – casual enough for a Thursday night, light enough for the temperature. Given the walk ahead she decided against wearing heals and picked up her black canvas shoes.

Before dressing she quickly rubbed a light raspberry & blackberry scented body butter over her mocha skin. One of the perks of having a Israeli mother. After her clothes and shoes were on she grabbed her bag and a hair tie of the couch under the window and headed for downstairs, easily tossing her rib length caramel coloured waves into a messy high ponytail.

At the door she picked up her keys from the dish and set the alarm before slamming the door behind her. One last check that it was securely locked and she was headed down the tree lined drive way to Breech Avenue.

~T.A.C.~

The walk to the Main Street took less time than she thought. The streets of her area were picturesque – the All American Dream. Lined with tall oak trees that still let plenty of sunlight through to the clean streets where children road bicycles and played hopscotch, the area was a far cry from some of the dingier areas she had passed during the move.

As she passed shop fronts and sporadically looked into the windows at anything that caught her eye, she couldn't help but smile at the strange feeling of contentment that suddenly washed over her. She had a career with potential, a beautiful house that she would never sell – rent out maybe, but unlikely – and still felt no void that at twenty-five most females would fill with a husband and children.

Nope, she was career driven and unattached and it felt _fantastic_.

Towards the end of Main she saw a small place that the sign declared to be Brady's Ranch. Tacky, cheesy, cliché. _Perfect_.

With an almost skip in her step, Quentin pushed open the old school saloon swinging doors that at a below average 5'4 prevented her from gaining the intentional peek over the door they were designed for.

She was mildly disappointed to learn that it was in fact _not_ a dive as she had anticipated. A heavy sigh was in her throat when her eyes caught the green felt pool table to her right. Although it was currently occupied by four gentlemen, all of which wearing the same leather vest, and surrounded by even more leather wearing lackeys, Quentin was sure a few strategically placed smiles and beers would secure her a place in the game.

Counting up and totalling seven blokes, Quentin retreated to the bar and quickly enquired about opening a tab – with seven blokes and herself to pay for, she wanted to do it in one hit, even if only covering one round.

Quickly ordering a whiskey on the rocks in the hand and one to be brought over with seven ales, she made her way over to the pool table, whiskey in hand. As she walked she let her keen senses she developed through med school kick in and took in the wide birth the other patrons were giving the leather wearers.

She had to give it to them, they probably had the right idea. The vibes she was receiving screamed danger and yet – she would later plead alcohol abuse, then insanity – she couldn't help but feel drawn to them.

She reached the table, still closer to the door whereas the others were around the other three sides of the table, she began to observe the game. How they played, each man's favourite shots, tells and habits, all noted and stored away for future – hopefully very near future – reference. She was mildly disappointed by how easy it was to track the plans and moves, their tells infuriatingly obvious and would make for a decidedly easy game. Maybe she could hustle them out of some cash…

It was only then she noticed three of the men who had been playing when she set up her tab had seemingly disappeared. The three men who had been standing around where now playing the game. It definitely explained why the game had gone from skilled to beginner.

She knew they knew she was standing there but it didn't concern her. Despite the subtle glares two of the players were beginning to send towards her, she was too busy inspecting _them_ to really care.

The first thing that caught her eye were the leather vests. The picture of a reaper was prominent and proud, she could feel the pride a mile away. The Sons of Anarchy. A motorcycle club. Her fear momentarily returned in a fever pitch but with a simple sip of her whiskey and a hell of a lot of discipline she pushed it back down.

The bottom banner read TACOMA. So three of these boys were from these parts. Quentin felt a little more nervous about walking home now than she had even moments previous.

The fourth Son, a young man probably her age, maybe a little older, with a Mohawk and tribal tattoos either side his head was the one difference in the group. The bottom of his vest stated CALIFORNIA, not TACOMA. So he was a foreigner.

She couldn't help but wonder about the other three. Where had they been from? She couldn't even remember what they had looked like let alone where they were from.

"Can we help you?" one finally snapped as Quentin closely observed him lining up the shot. To hustle or not to hustle?

"I'm sorry," she started in her cute intern voice, slightly widening her eyes and turning up the innocence, "I've just always wanted to play pool but I'm absolutely _terrible _at it."

Her slight Israeli accent was a blessing sometimes, particularly when she played it up.

She watched as his face turned into a smirk and knew immediately what he was thinking – help the bird, rub up again her, get in her pants. Or skirt for that matter. Hook, line, _sinker_.

"Well, why don't you let me finish this round and I'll, uh, give you a private lesson," he winked and she dutifully withheld the shudder as his eyes raked over her body.

Another one just laughed, his blonde head tossing back as the sound tore up from his belly. "Bowie can't play for shit! I on the other hand," he stopped laughing and sent a charming smile at Quentin, "can."

"Let me finish my drink and maybe you could, _both,_ help me?" she smiled lightly, hiding all her smugness in a simple sip from her glass. She fleetingly wondered where the other drinks were but was grateful as some of the men still hadn't returned, if they were returning at all.

Oh well, she was here to have fun, maybe make some money. What else were Thursdays for?

~T.A.C.~

Tig couldn't help but growl at the scot. Here they were, standing outside in the scorching heat while he babbled away on the phone to quickly for his alcohol addled mind to effectively keep up with. He had hit the grog a little earlier than his brothers but after finishing the last gun run for this trip and almost getting caught at it, he felt he deserved a drink.

Chibs finally hung up the damn device and slowly tucked it in his pocket, still looking at the ground while he thought over what had been exchanged. The scot was renowned for his devotion to brains before bullets but considering the real lack of bullets, Tig just wished he'd limit the brains. His wasn't quite up to standard at that point in time.

"That was Clay." That's it. Nothing else.

"Well if that's all-" Tig grumbled as he headed back towards the swinging doors.

"He wants us to stay for another week – at least." Tig spun around at that, the alcoholic haze instantly diminishing. As Sergeant-At-Arms it was not only his role to take care of discipline and retribution in the club, after all, the messy jobs were the most fun for him, but it was his job to protect the President. Another week in Tacoma meant another week Clay was unprotected.

Sure his brothers would do the job in his stead, it was how the brotherhood worked, but what purpose did he have if he wasn't in California, taking charge of the things no one else wanted to deal with?

"ATF has brought in even bigger guns," Chibs continued in his Scottish lilt, increasingly aware of both his brothers' silent anxiety. "The feds have brought in what they are to the local PD. We got the FBI crawling around our collective assholes now, too, and until that shit blows over, we stay put."

Tig needed another drink.

The first thing he saw when he walked back in was the back of a teenager, all young and flirty, in the arms of none other than Kozik while Bowie fumed on the opposite side. It would have been amusing had the FBI still not been in his head and thought of underage charges setting off a chain reaction was all he could see.

He didn't hear Chibs or Happy enter behind him but he knew they were following him as he marched over to the stupid blonde asshole and ripped him away from the jailbait.

"What the fuck are you doing with the jailbait?" he growled, his electric blue eyes lit up with a manic energy he was infamous for.

"Teaching the little lady how to play a game of pool. Aren't I sweetheart?" both men looked over at the girl and Tig couldn't help but understand why Kozik would be interested in breaking the line so many would ever cross.

Pretty young thing, he would almost say beautiful, but a quick reminder that the word was not in his vocabulary was enough to make her a hot piece of ass.

"Of course, he is an excellent teacher," she paused and a thoughtful smile lit up her face, "maybe I could play against one of you? $200 each?"

"Sorry sweetheart, don't think your that good," Tig scoffed as her eager expression fell.

"But Kozik taught me! I can, I promise," she pleaded. She was so naïve. Oh well, it was $200.

"Fine."

He was curt and direct but it was no less than what Quentin had been expecting. She kept her smug grin hidden with innocent excitement, the best way to fool a man. She quickly rubbed some chalk on the end of her cue and let the curly haired stranger from before set up the triangle.

She had seen the manic light in his eyes, could tell that of the group he was definitely the one to look out for – maybe besides the bald one, Quentin was admittedly terrified of him – but there was still an aura of pure sex appeal that shocked her to no end.

Her type was the stereotypical pretty boy with nice muscles and a white smile. She preferred the tussled blondes but didn't mind a curly haired surfer so this sudden intense attraction to the man who had to be at least twenty years her senior, had unruly curly hair and blue eyes that she could only imagine lighting up at the thought of violence absolutely _baffled_ her.

"Ladies first," he sneered at her from the other end of the table as he tossed $200 into Kozik's hand. She followed his lead and handed over the cash. From over his shoulder she could see the bar tender approaching with the round she had ordered nearly half an hour ago.

"On the little lady," he said with a wink in her direction to which she smiled and replied with a _thanks, Frankie._ Kozik just raised his eyebrows as he accepted the drink.

"I didn't know how much convincing would be necessary," Quentin replied with a shrug, secretly amused at how true the statement was even if the plan had developed slightly further.

Accepting her double whiskey she downed it and slammed the glass back on the edge of the pool table, feeling slightly giddy as the warmth burnt down her throat. _This_ was bringing back memories of college.

Taking them off guard she quickly lined up her shot and before they were aware, she had sunk to stripes and was onto her next shot. She quickly stood up- "Oh, I'm stripes, by the way."

By the time it was Tig's turn she had sunk four of her seven balls and he was very aware of the fact that he had been hustled. No bitch was shitty at pool one minute and then David Alcaide the next.

"Stupid, no good, lying slut," he grumbled as he missed his second shot after only sinking one ball. Kozik was having a great time ribbing him but shut up pretty quickly when Tig reminded him she fooled him first.

It was only a few minutes later that Quentin was counting the $400 in her hands, finally releasing the smug smile over her $200 profit. This night had turned out okay.

As she looked at the seven men she had fooled she noticed only three looked truly pissed off, including this Tig, three looked increasingly amused and one – the scary bald one – looked indifferent.

As she looked at her watch she felt almost saddened that it was only nine o'clock. Way too early to go home but with nothing left to do and doubting she would be able to play with anyone else, she decided home was the answer.

"Well," she started, her voice back to its normal slight lilt rather than heavily accented, "I best be off, I doubt anyone else will be a part of my games. But thanks for the _rhino_." She winked and headed to the bar.

Once she had closed her tab she pocketed her left over cash and left the bar. As she looked over her shoulder, her eyes met those of the manic biker. He wasn't smiling, he wasn't glaring, he was just staring. If anything, it unnerved her more than if he had glared.

Rather than smile or frown or make it worse for herself, Quentin just turned and kept walking out the saloon doors and down Main.

**A/N: First SOA fic, verdict? Oh and a quick mention, characters that are either briefly mentioned may not be further explored unless they have a significant impact on the story, and oddities – such as the extensive trust fund – will be explained in later chapters, so hold on tight, it will happen. I **_**promise**_**.**


	2. Chapter 2

THREE'S A CROWD

_Chapter two: Don't touch my whiskey._

The saloon doors were still swinging back and forth, back and forth, after she walked out of the bar. Golden eyes could see it plain as day, the patterns tracing in a kaleidoscope across her otherwise unblemished mocha skin. They covered her arms, her neck, her legs.

Why was no one else reacting? How could no one else see what was right in front of their faces?

"Hey pal, buy a drink or get out, we don't got space for loiterers," the greying man behind the bar clipped as he tried wiping down the bar as well as pour a line of shots for a rowdy group of patrons.

This wasn't good; a witness, one who could vouch for his presence at the same time. His breathing erratic and panic beginning to claw up his throat, he quickly rushed towards the exit. The sea of people that had parted so easily for her was now a pulsing mass, too thick to see through. He shoved and pushed and finally fell out the door.

The scabs tore from his freshly wounded hands but his attention was not on the blood he was once again spilling on the ground. In front of his hands he noticed a pair of worn out biker boots, a pair he was certain belonged to the curly haired maniac.

Surely enough, as he looked up he spotted a mass of curls and before either could say a word he was on his feet, running down the street and towards the object of his observations.

~T.A.C.~

It was a Friday morning and Quentin could not think of a single thing to do. She knew she was on call and that her best bet was to just unpack the boxes that were still stacked sky high in her garage. She didn't even want to think about the two storage units she still had to tackle.

Baby steps.

Deciding her best bet was to just start the day like any other average citizen with breakfast, orange juice and the morning paper, Quentin left the overheated sanctuary of her room and headed to the front door.

She was thankful for the light summer pyjamas she had remembered to unpack the night before, waking up in this heat in flannels would have had her in hospital for dehydration and a fever. Not something she wanted to happen on her second official day as an employee of the hospital.

The morning breeze was warm and Quentin new it only held promise of the day to come. The light wind pushed loose strands of hair into her face as she bent down to retrieve the paper from the end of the drive way.

In a sudden shift that left her off balance, goose bumps erupted all over her skin and she felt the hair raise on the back of her neck. Once again, she would be the first to admit she could be a paranoid yuppie, but she knew not to question things when the most basic of animalistic survival instincts had her on her guard.

Standing up with paper as if nothing was amiss, she slowly removed the plastic protective layer and elastic band before unrolling it into a readable A3. As she scanned over the headlines she kept a peripheral eye on the street.

The morning was still warm with the newly risen sun and the trees were lazily swaying to the rhythm of the summer winds. She could see a family walking down the opposite side of the street with their two dogs and two more children rode past on their bikes.

It was perfect, so why was she shaking lightly in repressed anxiety?

Rather than shake it off and play it up to a new town she quickly tucked the paper under her arm as she walked the distance back to her front door, locking it securely behind her before breathing deeply. She was unaware of the stranger in the shadows across the street.

~T.A.C.~

Tig could smell cheap perfume and cigarettes with a hint of whiskey and stale pussy. He breathed it deep into his lungs and sighed in contentment. This was what the MC was about. Alcohol, sex and freedom. He had it all.

Until the bint cuddled up to him.

"Hey!" she glared up from her position, sprawled completely naked on the worn carpet.

"Out. Now," was all he had to say, looking down his nose with narrowed eyes for her to swallow deep in fear and quickly race around the room to pick up her shit. In under thirty seconds he was once again on his own and ready to sleep.

"Oi, brother! We got a problem," Chibs' less than cheery voice grumbled through the hardwood door. Clearly he had been woken up by another brother and was probably the only one game enough to disturb Tig.

Growling low and menacingly, Tig quickly pulled up his jeans and threw on last night's shirt before slipping on his boots. There was nothing he could do for his hair – there hadn't been in the last twenty or so years, he wasn't going to try now – so he just left it, grabbing his cut as he left the room and slammed the door shut behind him.

He spared a thought for the location of his keys which, unfortunately, he last recalled being on his dresser in his dorm. His mood darkened considerably and only pushed him faster to the Chapel in the Tacoma clubhouse.

He was the last one to pull up a chair but no one dared to challenge him – his reputation preceded him.

"We got a dead Nord about two miles north of here," Lorca, Tacoma President, started in his grave business like voice. "Execution style, shallow grave. That's not the interesting part, though. Whoever took care of the Nordic had a little fun before he offed him, carved up half his tats, most notably the swastikas."

"And that's still not the interesting part," Kozik interjected with a grim smile.

"Then can you get to it?" Tig growled, tiring quickly of the conversation. If it wasn't their hit then why did they need to get their hands dirty? Especially with the new heat in Charming, this was the last thing they needed.

"Little Tiggy still sore about getting hustled?"

"Tig got hustled?" was the first thing that rang out around the room. Trust Juice, retard extraordinaire, to be present at the time and not even realise what happened.

"Unless you want to be singing soprano I'd get to the point."

"Well someone didn't get laid," Kozik rolled his eyes but continued none the less. He knew where to draw the line. Most of the time. "They didn't just carve him up, they completely obliterated the tattoos and carved all these patterns into his skin. Think of pork night down at Brady's."

There was a collective cringe but Tig stayed stoic. On one hand he was still adamant that this was not something they needed on their rap sheets and the timing was phenomenally shit. But on the other hand it clearly wasn't a gang hit, not professional in the slightest.

If it happened again, could it be a threat against the club?

"Hold on," the room all looked to him and he silently revelled in the pull he maintained even in other charters, "What are the Nords doing this far North? They're local fuckers, don't see them crossing stateliness all that frequently."

"Aye, I'll call Clay, he might know what the fucks going on with 'em," Chibs spoke up. There wasn't a lot more to be discussed and sure enough, Church was adjourned and the doors flung open.

His first target was Happy. "What the fuck is he doing getting us involved in this shit?"

Happy continued to the bar and grabbed two beers from a sweetbutt on bar duty. "This isn't the first one."

That stopped Tig in his tracks. One would be enough to put the club on alert, maybe keep an eye out for any psychopaths – not associated with the club – and eliminate the threat as it arose. But it happening multiple times only pointed to someone picking off Nordics which in turn would fall at their feet soon enough.

Tig just downed his beer and grabbed the hand of a blonde sweetbutt he hadn't seen before.

~T.A.C.~

She was five days into her mandatory two week rotation and had yet to receive a call from work. At this rate, Quentin figured it was just HA Karen's sick way of messing with the new employee. She probably didn't have anything better to do so a small part of Quentin didn't blame her at all.

The larger part, however, cursed the very day she was born.

A loud wailing ripped through the now less-echoey living room – the book shelves were stacked and some of the furniture from storage in – tearing through her increasingly aggressive thoughts.

Speak of the devil.

"Dr. Faulkner," she answered with fake politeness and a sarcastic smile on her face.

"Quentin, hello," she didn't recognise the male voice on the other end and the use of her first name just confused her. "This is Dr. Forbes from Tacoma General, I'm head of ICU. We need you to come in for the night shift, three doctors are suddenly unavailable and we are already low staffed."

"No problem," she replied this time in a genuinely pleased voice. She didn't mind pulling the graveyard shift, it's not like she had anything to fill up her days and Tuesday nights weren't exactly known for their raging night life.

"Fantastic! We need you here at four and you will be working until two a.m., sorry but it's essentially a double shift, low staffed," he reiterated.

That slightly lessened the content feeling but she was satisfied none the less. Work was better than no work, even if it was at hours that were sure to throw her body clock into the gutter.

"See you in-" she quickly checked her watch, "-two hours."

A too cheerful goodbye and a dial tone later, Quentin was left on the other end of the line still mildly confused but let herself bask in the relief of a change of routine after the last five days of _house work_. Ew.

With just under two hours before a ten hour shift, Quentin settled on a hot bubble bath to relax her before she willingly entered the mad house.

~T.A.C.~

He would call it a design fault but the classic error left him the opportunity to continue with his investigation without being interrupted. He had to admit that maybe, just maybe, it was on purpose. It wasn't exactly like the designers planned on someone managing to scale to his position in order to glimpse the view he now achieved.

He could still see the runes in her skin, glowing in the warm weather and intensifying under the steam cloud swirling around the large open room. Two large bay windows on two adjacent walls, the corner of the upstairs bathroom none the less gave him the perfect double angle to remain hidden.

She turned her back to him as she put her hair up and at last the master piece was revealed to him. A whole canvas of sacred instructions and graphics inked out along her spine and circling around to encompass the entire space.

It was beautiful, it was sacred, it needed to be secured.

_He_ didn't understand what he did. Only he understood what it meant and it was his job to teach her.

He dropped the binoculars back around his neck and took one last long drag from his cigarette before stamping out the filter and tossing it off the roof. He had things to prepare. Soon it would be time.

~T.A.C.~

The hospital was quiet. Too quiet. She would liken it to the calm before a storm but Quentin knew that was just wishful thinking. No, like she had affirmed to herself just earlier that evening, Tuesdays were not exactly known for the night life.

Understaffed be damned, there were a good three doctors working the ICU level at any one time throughout her shift and given that the nurses generally took care of intensive care patients, and that the doctors were more or less in case of emergencies or if they had patients to check up on specifically, she felt that there probably _were_ understaffed area's where she could be useful. Just not here.

She was only glad she was beyond working the ER. Not that she had anything against interns, she had been one and technically still was one in terms of cardiology requirements, but having newbies that panicked whenever particularly gruesome cases came through the ambulance bay was only entertaining for so long. And that had also passed long ago.

Touch wood, she would be assigned to ICU for as long as p-

"Ah, Quentin! I'm sorry, Dr. Faulkner," none other than Dr. Forbes, head of ICU and earthly Adonis, appeared up the hallway. "I seemed to have been misinformed about staff in the ICU but Dr. Tanner paged me to mention that the ER is running a little short…"

He trailed off with an apologetic smile and Quentin couldn't help but stare at his eyes. They had been the first thing she noticed when she reached to shake his outstretched hand that shot through the elevator doors before she had even steeped out.

They were the most unusual shade of emerald green she had ever seen and Quentin had barely managed to contain herself, so strong was the urge to reach out and poke one – real or just an illusion? Instead she had just blurted out, _"are they contacts?"_

He had just chuckled and assured her they were the eyes he was born with; the same ones god had gifted him and his mother and grandfather before him. She had backed away a little after that. She wasn't a particularly religious person and although she had nothing against religion or religious people, she wasn't particularly in the mood to be sermonized.

"Of course," she replied, once again faux cheerful, as she realised just how badly she must have jinxed herself. His smile only widened and she couldn't help the shudder that ran down her spine. For once she couldn't determine whether it was from pleasure or trepidation.

After all, that green eye, white smile, wavy blonde hair match was a killer.

She waited until she was in the elevator, headed towards ground floor and the Emergency Room, before she really analysed the man who had essentially been her boss for – she quickly glanced at her watch – just over half her shift.

He was tall, very tall, and at a measly 5'4 Quentin had never been hard of finding men who were taller than her. Didn't mean she didn't like tall, _not at all_. His hair was that kind of blonde that could never be achieved in a bottle, only spending endless days in the sun over a long period of time. Or a really good hairdresser armed with foils. _Yeah_, she finally admitted, _it was probably bottle_.

She ran through the other physical features that just made him the perfect specimen he was – square jaw, wide bright eyes, tanned complexion that honestly looked just a little too orange, and muscle toned to perfection.

Come to think of it, this 'perfect Adonis' as she had initially dubbed him was seeming more and more unappealing. Not to be mistaken, he was still mighty attractive but she couldn't help but compare his superficial, fake beauty with another.

Only this one was au naturel – no fake tans, no perfectly combed bottle blonde hair, no perfectly bleached teeth, no TV-bought muscle definition. No. The man she was thinking of was all raw energy. Wild curly hair, as dark as Forbes' was light, naturally white teeth, warm sun kissed skin from being outside for lengths at a time – and frequently – and a lithe, strong frame.

She realised she was thinking of the biker – Tig – she had hustled at the bar almost a week earlier. She hadn't thought of him since and the fact that the attraction instantly flared up as she compared the two men threw her a little.

Quentin was not a woman who fancied a different man everyday but at the same time she realised that in the past she had sought out relationships where she knew she would never let herself become too attached, that way she could cut ties and escape before it got too serious and never have to face the consequences of loving with all her heart.

Heartbreak wasn't her thing. She could barely take care of others experiencing it, let alone herself. That and she couldn't handle tears. The hospital was maybe the only place she could, she thought absent mindedly as she grabbed a clip board from the Emergency desk and briefly ran over the cases taken in.

There were the usual broken bones and dislocations, breathing problems and wounds needing stitches. All children having a little too much fun once the sun had gone down.

It was now nearing 9.30 pm and Quentin was almost certain that after this wave of visitors it would die down for the night except for the odd patient here and there. She had barely put the clipboard back with a small stitch job in mind when the doors to the ambulance bay were thrown open and Quentin found herself shifting into emergency mode.

Given her calm nature in general, the shift was undetectable to bystanders but Quentin felt it like a rush of cool water down her spine. This was the mindset she needed to make the logical, rational decisions that would ultimately determine this patient's life.

~T.A.C.~

_Finally at home_.

The rest of the night had been spent in surgery with the ambulance arrival. Dr. Forbes had been right when he told her they were understaffed. Having incorporated a Bachelor of Surgery into her Medical Degree had been a benefit as her years studying surgery also included her placements in the hospital system, giving her the intern experience necessary while obtaining the necessary qualifications.

This was a gunshot wound to the stomach. It had been angled upwards towards the man's ribs and the bullet managed to shatter three before entering the left lung. The explosion of bone shards had also wreaked havoc internally as they became imbedded in the same collapsed lung, surrounding tissues and managing to become lodged in some of his surrounding organs.

After five hours in surgery, a surgery Mr. ICU should have been present for but had to leave citing 'personal emergency', the unknown patient flat lined and was unable to be revived.

_Time of death – she looked at her watch one last time – 2.36 a.m._

It was now three in the morning and Quentin was lying on a deck chair on the back lawn, a bottle of Old Eight on the small foot stool next to her and Hiatus Kaiyote's _Malika_ filling the house loudly enough to reach her out in the yard.

She was in nothing but her black bra and underwear but in the night time, surrounding by a hedge on one neighbouring side and her house on the other, she felt more than comfortable enough. That and the alcohol was definitely taking away her worries. Or it could have been the Glock she kept next to her. Just in case.

With an MC in the area she had no doubt it was not an unnecessary precaution.

She had seen the tattoos under all the blood on her patient – victim – tonight. The white supremacy markings, the swastikas and the large Nordics tattoo across his abdomen, partially shredded by the bullet.

She wasn't stupid enough to think this was random, she had a pretty good idea who was responsible but it wasn't her place to say anything. She didn't need to be even more paranoid than she already was. But the culprits, in her eyes at least, needed to be reminded that there were people in this town who knew exactly what they were up to.

With that she took another deep bull from the bottle and let it hang from her lose grip.

~T.A.C.~

Leaving work had been easy. _He_ had taught him how to do that, to leave and not be asked questions. The usual excuse of a family emergency, one that the more frequently used the more legitimate it became, was the perfect scape goat.

It had been harder tonight; too dark to see properly and now that he was here, he couldn't very well shine a light out over the field she called a back yard. He had been in too much of a rush – a rush to remove his lab coat and scrubs, clean himself up and grab his belongings from the locker – too return home for his night vision binoculars.

He wish he had. In the minimal light from the thick rain clouds moving in from the west he was unable to watch the runes interact, the patterns were just a dull mass of what could be shrugged off as scars.

In future, he would keep them in the car. The last thing he needed was to be so unprepared. If he couldn't document his research, what kind of doctor would that make him?

No. He would be prepared next time.

He reached for the half crushed deck of Commander's in his back pocket and stuck one between his lips. The quick light of the flame seared the edges and suddenly a deep calm spread throughout his limbs.

Quickly snapping the American Patriot zippo closed he took one last look at the object of his studies and dropped his cigarette as he noticed her looking. Right. At. _Him_.

He didn't freeze this time, he ran. Climbed off the roof he had been so carefully perched on and made sure to remain in part of the front hedge for the next five minutes – hidden and a part of the shadows.

The music didn't shut off, no rushed footsteps or screams like he had expected, just the silence of the night marred by the horrible music echoing through the house. A few deep breaths to settle his racing pulse and he quickly made his way down the street, making sure to pull his hood up and look at his feet as two motorcycles slowed next to him and pulled into the drive way of the house he had scaled.

Too close. _Too close_.

~T.A.C.~

She could smell smoke. Thick, clogging and black as it even started to blur her vision in the already black night. Had she still been sober, Quentin was sure she could have made the switch to her surgery mindset and approach it rationally and most of all _safely_.

But no. A whole bottle of whiskey tended to cloud one's mind, no matter how sobering the situation was. Quentin took in the glow just beyond the hedge; it was steadily becoming brighter and the orange intensifying to an intense red.

_Fire_.

The alcohol swallowed the panic but it also inhibited her survival mechanisms. She wasn't frozen in fear – although that would have been a normal reaction but Quentin had resigned herself to the fact that she wasn't all that normal a long time ago – but rather confusion.

Her brain chose that time to wonder, _why?_ _Why _was there a fire? _How_ did it start? She had thought she had seen a small glow on the roof earlier but she had also seen more than one cat that liked to perch on the roof. But didn't cat's eyes need light to reflect?

The flames had now swallowed the hedge through to her side of the yard and were steadily spreading either side, making its way in both horizontal directions.

As suddenly as the questions had hit her, a wave of sobriety returned and in an instant Quentin was making her way, albeit shakily, to her lounge room to call 911.

**A/N: yay! So chapter two is up, don't expect updates quite this quickly, I'm studying for final exams and am working like a dog to pay for a holiday so these may become far and few between but I promise I will try! What are your thoughts? Reviews are more than welcome!**


	3. Chapter 3

THREE'S A CROWD

_Chapter three: Drinking Problems Are for Teenagers and Outlaws_.

When Clay had called him to inform him he had just arrived in Tacoma, Tig thought his reaction was perfectly normal. After the strict instructions to stick cross country until the new federal heat blew over, he couldn't think of a single logical reason why his prez would be here. Hence why, had it been anyone other than Clay, the phone didn't end up smashed under his boot mid conversation.

It did, however, experience an unplanned introduction to a brick wall.

He met Clay at the unofficial meet place, Brady's Ranch, where everyone seemed to just automatically meet up. It was in the town centre but still far enough out of the way that it was perfect for a gang of outlaw motorcyclists to congregate without suspicion.

But that hadn't been the biggest surprise. As they drove into the quiet, safe neighbourhood – definitely the work of Lorca's old lady, Josie – they were overtaken by two fire engines screaming past. It wasn't until they had turned down Breech Avenue and spotted the trucks at the Tacoma Presidents house that they began to worry.

Lorca was outside in his classic white shirt, blue jeans, boots and cut combo. He appeared the picture of calm but anyone could spot the rage simmering under the surface.

"You're trying to tell me," he began in an emotionless voice, "that my drunk neighbour flicked a goddam _cigarette_ and almost burnt my fucking _house_ down." He raised an eyebrow at the fire departments newest recruit who was visibly shaking in his black and yellow uniform.

"W-well," he swallowed deeply before raising his chin and folding his arms across his chest in a weak attempt at asserting dominance over the situation. "We can't be certain it was Miss Faulkner, she is still sobering up-"

"I told you, goddamit, I am _fine_!" all four looked over to the ambulance parked in front of the two story mansion next door. Tig recognised her instantly as the chick from the bar and from the look on Lorca's face, he was just as pissed.

She hopped out of the back of the bus in nothing but her underwear and blanket which seemed to be for the sole purpose of covering her up – it may have been nearing five in the morning but the sun was already rising and the temperature was at a comfortable 75.

"Miss, you need to sit back down!"

"Like hell I do!"

She huffed and stormed over to the group of men where the Police Chief had also joined them, a pointed glare directed at Fireman Sam. He visibly cringed.

"Miss…" Chief Dawson trailed off awkwardly. All he had been told was the drunk neighbour had started a fire that threatened two homes. He had been expecting a divorced doctor or housewife with a heavy settlement not a beautiful young woman in nothing but her underwear.

"Dr. Faulkner," her face softened slightly and she shuffled the blanket around in her arms so she could stick out her hand to shake.

Well, he had been partially right.

"Chief Dawson. The report is that this was started by a cigarette. Are you a smoker?"

She huffed in annoyance. "Used to be, quit when I was working three jobs to keep myself through med school. Too expensive and never seemed to have the time."

So the hustler was a doctor? Tig couldn't help but smirk at the irony of it all. From what he could see of the house – and the area she lived in – she was loaded.

"Look," she cut through his thoughts, "do you mind if I go put some clothes on? Not that this chat hasn't been lovely but I'm sweating like an onion in this blanket."

"She could be going to get rid of evidence!" Fireman Sam piped up excitedly. _Clearly this was his first rodeo, _Quentin thought sourly.

Even the police chief rolled his eyes. "Fine, any volunteers to escort Dr. Faulkner inside? Not you Berkley." He snapped as the probate took a smug step forwards. He quickly backed down but not without a sideways scowl at the Chief.

"I'll do it."

Five pairs of eyes snapped to him and Tig was loathe to admit that it annoyed him. Clay just raised an eyebrow. "I'll go with him."

"Do _I_ get a say in this?" Chief Dawson just walked away as if he hadn't heard the young woman's outburst. Part of being on the Sons payroll meant every now and then he had to relinquish his authority and as small a matter as this was better than some of the things they had asked of him. _Asked_ being the operative – sarcastic – word.

Quentin was too tired to argue. She had almost been awake for 24 hours and the usual solution of staying awake to prevent a hangover seemed to be failing her immensely. Instead she just turned on her heal and headed down the sidewalk to her driveway. She was very aware of the two pairs of eyes following her every step and even though she couldn't distinguish individual words, she was certain they were whispering about her.

~T.A.C.~

"How do you know her?" were the first words out of Clay's mouth as he watched the bird walk towards her huge-ass house. She couldn't be any older than Tara and even the twenty-eight year old doc from Charming couldn't afford something this extravagant. He couldn't help but wonder where else she was sticking her perfectly shaped nose.

"The bitch hustled me," Tig grumbled. If it was anyone else he would have lied. Being hustled by a chick, a chick who turned out to be a doctor, was a low blow to his ego and he wanted nothing more than to backhand the bitch for it.

Clay grinned at him. So the bird had balls. Interesting. Not many people had the gall to stand up to his Sgt-At-Arms, he couldn't remember the last person to fight him on anything – except maybe Jax, but even he backed down when the line had been sufficiently crossed.

He watched the girl push open her unlocked door – something that made him cringe thinking about their own safety measures back in Charming – and followed in behind her, his SAA trailing him.

If Tig had thought the house was pricey from the outside, the inside more than confirmed it. It was like a wood and glass palace. And there was so much fucking _marble._ Both men watched her lightly jog up the stairs and, being the upstanding gentlemen they were, followed her up to the second story.

She was just entering a room at the end of a hall beyond the parlour when they reached the top of the stairs. Clay was happy to step out onto the patio to wait but Tig, still sore about his losses, followed her straight to her room.

He stopped in the door frame and took in his surroundings. The light blue walls and white lace curtains; it was feminine but the hardwood floors and plain duvet made it tasteful. None of that tacky pink shit and frills all over the place.

Black and white photographs of all sizes decorated the walls and the only other furniture was a beige chaise under the window and a dresser on the other side of the room.

He didn't move as she stepped out of the bathroom in nothing but a clean pair of underwear. He smirked at the blue and white polka dot panties and yellow bra. Apparently she wasn't as organised as she liked to appear.

"So Doc," she glared at him but walked to the walk in closet anyway. It was obvious he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "What's a rich bitch like you doing hustling poor bikers?"

She clenched a tight fist in the pale green dress she was removing from the hanger, thankful he couldn't see her to know his comments had actually affected her. She slipped the light cotton over her head and pulled her hair up on top of her head in a messy pile, securing it with an aged hair tied that had definitely seen better days.

"Considering where the head honcho lives I don't think you're all that poor. You were waving that $200 like it was pocket change," she retorted as she pulled the doors closed behind her and headed back for the bathroom to clean her teeth.

"Touché."

"Touché," she mocked, although it came out more like a gurgle as her toothbrush and toothpaste muffled the sound. She quickly spat and rinsed her mouth, not wanting to spend any more time alone with the crazy biker than necessary.

Not that she would even consider this visit necessary.

She stepped back into her bedroom and sucked in a sharp breath as he suddenly stomped to the window and ripped back the curtains.

"Hey!" she cried. If anything broke it wouldn't be him who had to repair it.

He didn't say anything, just kept staring at the roof diagonally across the street – more opposite Lorca's house. He swore he had seen someone up there.

"Keep your curtains closed," he half growled. It wasn't like he _cared_. He had no interest in the slight woman whose first name he didn't even know. None. At. All.

"You're right," he looked over his shoulder at her, eyebrow raised. She was agreeing with him? "Peeping Toms are running rampant this time of year." She raised her own eyebrow back at him.

He growled lowly and looked back to the house across the street. He watched as a blonde man walked passed but realised he was just a curious bystander, trying to get a peek at the commotion two fire engines, an ambulance and the Chief of Police tended to cause. He ran his hand through his blonde hair as he looked at the damage.

"I'm serious. Just cause ya filthy fucking rich doesn't mean someone won't blow ya brains out." He should know. One of the deadliest men stateside lived next door and wasn't a stranger to such situations.

"We do get birds," she mused. "And trees. Sometimes we even get _falling leaves_."

~T.A.C.~

It had been way too close a call. He hadn't meant to start a fire but it had worked in his favour; one more experiment to add to his data. She had been walking around in nothing but her underwear and no one even batted an eyelid. Sure the men leered at her, admired her legs in the way the red blooded male in him also admired them.

But none of them admired what was the most important, most palpable aspect of her body. When she had been in the ambulance he had been sure they had also seen the patterns but they let her go with nothing more than a blanket to cover them up.

Was it just him? Or was this just another case of people only seeing what they wanted to see?

He also knew he had hit a stroke of luck when he wasn't caught, especially once he found out who lived next door. He ran a hand through his already stress tousled hair. On top of that he had almost been caught again as he once again looked in on her from upstairs.

The psychotic biker had rushed to the window and as if he were standing right in front of him, he fell back onto his hands. Looking down at his once again scraped hands he made a note to return that night to do a little cleaning and damage control, maybe stick around to make a few more notes.

_Good observation is good science_.

Speaking of which he was late. With one last look at the carnage he tucked his hands back into his pockets, fiddling with his almost empty pack of Commander's, and headed down the few streets to where he had parked the silver vehicle.

~T.A.C.~

Before the police left they decided to test Quentin's blood alcohol level, _just a precaution_ Dawson had told her. _Precaution my ass_, she knew this case was just a mountain of police and fire reports to be sorted through and for them it was just easier to find a solid suspect to pin it on and move on.

She figured she must have had some good karma in storage as she blew an almost non-existent 0.001, well below the legal limit. Another hour later and the street was quiet as the desert.

The two bikers had already returned to the neighbouring house with a promise – more like just informing her of something she had no control over – to return as soon as they had 'sorted out some business'. She didn't even want to know.

Sure enough, just as her phone started ringing the two men, joined this time by her neighbour, began the slight ascent up her driveway. She had left her front door open in order to see their approach and actually be prepared – clothed – for the arrival.

She considered rejecting the call but considering the number was one of the many hospital lines she figured she better take it.

"Dr. Faulkner," she answered as she closed the door behind the three bikers. She ushered them straight into the kitchen and pulled out a beer, holding it up silently in offering. The two presidents – their vests were awfully helpful – shook their heads in the negative but Tig accepted it with no more than a smirk.

"Quentin!" her head recoiled slightly at the sheer volume and gingerly placed her ear closer as the cheerful voice of Dr. Forbes boomed through the speaker. She winced slightly as Tig used the edge of her marble bench top and his palm to pop the bottle cap off. "I'm so sorry to call you in two days in a row, especially after last night."

Last night? How the hell did he know about last night? Tacoma bordered on a small city, gossip did not travel _that_ fast. Surely it wasn't possible.

"Last night?"

"The surgery. I understand this was the first patient you lost?"

The surgery. _Of course_.

"Oh, right, thank you for your concern," it hadn't been but he didn't need to know. "What time did you need me?"

She chose to ignore the innuendo that was plain as day and instead focussed on the damaged area of her side fence. The fence was easy to replace and the hedge would grow back eventually. She was just glad no one had been hurt.

"As soon as possible. Dr. Tanner told me they were low in the Emergency Room again and we need as many hands as possible."

Her good karma must have depleted. As she was saying her goodbyes, something from the black, charred circle of ashes caught her eye. Ignoring the three men still hovering in her kitchen she walked around the island bench and out one of the glass doors in the glass wall.

She crouched down to look closely at the small piles that had once been sturdy slats of wood and waxy leaves of the hedgerow. The uneven surface was all matte black, no discrepancies.

Just as she was straightening up the light caught it again and a sharp metallic flash caught her peripheral. Now that was no cigarette.

She brushed of the top layer and gently fingered the American Patriot zippo. She looked into the next yard and observed the close proximity of the house to her fence. It could have dropped from a window ledge easily or even been dropped by someone walking that way.

But it was on her side of where the fence previously stood. Clutching it lightly in her palm, she ambled back towards her house where she noticed the congregation had shadowed her outside. She considered the tall bearded man before looking back at the lighter. She held it out to him.

"Recognise this?"

He took the metal square from her, a frown pushing his bushy eyebrows to form one long line. "Never seen it."

He handed it back without another word. She accepted it hesitantly but decided maybe it was best. After all, this could prove crucial if it was determined the fire was deliberately started – not that she had any faith in the police department to actually sort this out.

Leaving the men outside, Quentin returned to her house where she grabbed her purse and a clean pair of scrubs from the cupboard by the door. It was perfect for emergencies. She quickly ducked her head back out the back door and informed the men she was leaving.

"Just close the doors on your way out." What else could she say to outlaw one percenters?

Get out? Yeah, _likely_.

~T.A.C.~

For a Wednesday, it was certainly busy in the ER. She had yet to run into Dr. George Hamilton and was grateful. Something about his presence was draining and after the night she's had, it was the last thing she needed.

Clocking the time as 1.30 pm, Quentin was finally ready to head home once more. She had only worked since 7.30 that morning but six hour shifts running purely on coffee and cinnamon gum were not on her List of Favourite Wednesday Activities. Her sleep schedule was absolutely shot to shit, of that she was pretty bloody certain.

She had been awake for, what? Over 32 hours? That shit shouldn't be legal.

Had it only been a week ago that she had been running around the streets of Tacoma, looking for dive bars to let lose in? Hustling money from big bad bikers and recreationally drinking her weight in whiskey? The whiskey had become more of a coping mechanism and seeming as it had only taken a couple of days to develop, Quentin was more than concerned about it becoming a habit.

The drive home was nothing short of dangerous. Trying to keep her navy blue Merc in her lane was hard enough as it was without bloody texting teenagers playing dodgems on the high way. Whether it was her sleep deprived brain or just genuine confusion, she wasn't sure, but she was almost positive she was doing better staying in her lane than half the people on the road who she could bet with her life had had more sleep than her.

Okay, so she was being a whiny bitch.

_Sleep_.

~T.A.C.~

Dr. Jason Forbes was a very well respected, very successful, very _wealthy_ man who desired little that he couldn't just have. Admittedly, the qualities he achieved in his professional working life he couldn't exactly say he had correlated with his personal life.

In his wake he had left two wives, each with a child that he still supported but had no idea how to interact with, and three that had left him in _their_ wake. One of which, his last wife Tanya, had truly meant the world to him.

He had never wanted to be part of the cliché when it came to love; he could already admit that materialistically he was the ideal television husband. But love was one thing he had dismissed on a regular basis. He wasn't really sure he had loved the first four wives.

But Tanya had been different. She had been his exotic beauty who didn't care for his money or his status in the community. She had just wanted him and that had meant more than he could ever convey.

Moving from the middle east gave her an appreciation of the smallest things and even as his wife, with anything she could ever want at her disposal, she was the first of his long list of spouses to not want to spend a dime. She was more content to enjoy the simple things.

Sitting in the sun with him on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Cooking him a traditional Israeli Malawach. Tending to the extensive gardens of their home.

But it wasn't greed or bitterness that stole her away from him. No. It was a combination of genetics and environmental exposure from when she had lived in Iran. A deadly combination. It was discovered that she already carried the gene that had a high potential of mutation and developing into a form of cancer. Chemical warfare of the Middle East had only encouraged the mutation.

After only three years of marriage his beautiful bride had been diagnosed with brain cancer to which she succumbed in just four months. In his grief he turned to the bottle, drank himself into oblivion nearly every day and didn't show up to work for over a month.

It had been a visit from his son to his second wife that finally brought him back to life, so to speak. The resemblance between them was uncanny; the same eyes, the same prominent chin, the blonde hair and even the thirst for knowledge.

He knew it was selfish, choosing now to make and effort in his twenty-three year old son's life – and for his own benefit, no less – but he needed something to focus on.

A project.

Looking around the hospital, his ward, the most important ward in the building besides the operating theatres, and he felt that previous sense of accomplishment crash over him. Only this time it was tainted with regret. Regret that he couldn't share it with his lovely dead wife.

~T.A.C.~

"So how do we handle this?"

Church had once again been called at the Tacoma clubhouse. At either end of the table sat a president, both intimidating in their own right and with their Sergeant-At-Arms on their left, they were a power to be instantly recognised.

Only in this community, it wasn't a way to show the congregation the sides of authority or argument, rather a show of distributed equality of power. Unity.

Tig considered the question sincerely. How did they handle this? And what exactly was _this_ anyway?

Dead Nords were poppin' up all over the county and they still hadn't found any leads.

"Well, we know the MO," Juice started. For a retard he was real good at this shit. Tig's brain was that of a killer, he could handle the dirty jobs but figuring out why other people did shit? Not his forte. "They are specifically targeting Nords, for starters, no other races, colours or even gender. They are purposely… _removing_ the swastikas and then slicing up the rest of the body."

"They're only flesh wounds."

One thing Tig had learnt over the years was that if the stoic Tacoma Killer said anything, it was usually pretty profound. This seemed to be the exception to the rule.

There was silence around the room as everyone processed Happy's statement. The room felt a little colder as he glared. If there was one thing Happy hated, it was people making him explain himself.

"They aren't shanking to kill." Still nothing. "Look at the fuckin' cuts. Look for a pattern with the bodies."

For a man of few words, he sure was one to make an impact. Tig could swear a collective light bulb flashed above the reaper.

Clay looked to Lorca. "Can you crack the morgue?"

Lorca just laughed. "Either way, at the rate this bastards exterminating we should have our own morgue with the next couple of weeks."

Clay just hoped the answer was yes.

**A/N: sorry it's a little shorter than the other two. It seemed like a good place to finish for now. If you guys have any suggestions or ideas for characters, twists or plots please tell me and I'll see what I can do :) Review, review, review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry it has taken so long! Enjoy!**

_Chapter Four: My Name Is Inconvenience. Let's be friends! _

If there was one thing Tig wanted as he slung his helmet over the left handle bars of his Dyna, it was a cold beer and a busty blonde, two things the Charming clubhouse he had missed so desperately in the last three weeks had plenty of.

It wasn't until he was snapping his fingers at a redhead with a crappy dye job for a beer while simultaneously winking and smirking – giving a clear invitation – to a middle aged bleach blonde that he finally felt himself relax. The constant tension in his shoulders dulled and his focussed squint relaxed into a lazy grin.

As she got closer, Tig recognised her as Emily Duncan – mouth like a hoover, pussy as loose as a stripper – and couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed. The Lucite heels were tacky and her boob tube too small for her body. If he was being honest with himself, he could probably pull a younger, most likely tighter, more attractive sweetbutt but Emily was probably the most eager to go along with his unusual sexual tastes.

_Who was he to complain?_ He thought with a smirk.

Taking one last eager pull from his beer, he gripped her forearm tight and began dragging her back to his dorm room, digging out his keys and swinging them around his middle finger as he went.

~T.A.C.~

"Mrs Omars, you need to take your blood pressure tablets." If there was one thing that played on Quentin's nerves it was when patients refused to follow doctor advice. This wasn't even advice. This was a goddam order.

The elderly Mrs Omars had been rushed to hospital with symptoms of a heart attack and sure enough, now she was in recovery and refusing to help herself.

"I don't need those things, feelin' healthy as a horse. And look at the size of 'em! Ima end up chokin' before they do any good!"

Quentin sighed quietly.

"Would you like me to make them smaller?"

"_Would_ I? Smaller?"

"I'll bring you a bag of gummy bears." Mrs Omars raised an eyebrow. "And the new season of the Bachelor."

"Well? Those tablets ain't gon' half themselves."

After returning to the room with the promised goods and carefully watching Mrs Omars swallow the now manageable tablets, she returned to the nurse's station to retrieve her charts. She was grateful to be back on her two week rotation, the two weeks she had off unfortunately resembled hell more than she had ever expected.

She had been relived to be called Tuesday and Wednesday, she needed the distraction – once from boredom, second from the fire. That said, every single day for the rest of her two weeks off she was called in and nearly every time, placed in the ER. She had no doubt that HA Karen Hanson was responsible for that little manoeuvre but was pleased that she had been available every single call.

_Yeah_, HA Karen could stick it.

Quentin sighed again as she checked her chart. Another fourteen patients to check up on before she could go home. She adjusted her stethoscope around her neck as she headed off to Room 384.

Hang on, Room 384? That was in the ICU.

Quentin turned on her heel and walked briskly back to the nurses' station.

"Dr. Faulkner?" a young blonde straight out of nursing school sat on the backless swivel chair in front of a computer and a sky high pile of charts and files. Must have gotten stuck with the grunt work.

"Could you please pull a patient file up for me, Nurse, uh," she trailed off uncertainly.

"Oh, I'm Ana," she smiled brightly and stuck her hand out to shake. Quentin looked at it awkwardly. She had never been fond of overly bubbly people but this girls' enthusiasm was infectious. She finally smiled and took her hand.

"Quentin," she replied.

"Oh, I know."

"You do?" she raised an eyebrow at the young blonde. She had her hair pulled back into a low bun at the nape of her neck, a few strands falling around her heart shaped face and framing dark blue eyes, rose pink cheeks and bow shaped lips. Quentin felt a healthy dose of jealousy mixed with a small pang of resentment at the unbelievably innocent, beautiful girl.

"Oh, well, the other nurses kind of warned me about you," she admitted, blushing a deep shade of red which made all resentment disappear. How could she dislike such a cute little thing? Even if she was probably only a few years younger. That and it was an unfortunate blush that spread from her chest to her neck and all the way to her ears. Yeah, it made Quentin feel mildly better.

Then her statement clicked.

"_Warned_ you?" this time both eyebrows rose in surprise.

"Oh, it was nothing terrible but…"

"But?"

"Well, they just…" Quentin felt sorry for the girl. Clearly she didn't want to get on her bad side and yet she didn't want to betray the other nurses who would no doubt give her hell if she sided with the doctor.

"'S okay, don't worry about it." She tried to ignore the relief that flooded the girls eyes and couldn't help but think it was ironic that it was the nurses that were instilling that much fear in the other staff that were also warning people about her. "I just need to see who the overseeing Doctor is for the patient in Room 384. I don't have a name on my chart and the room is on my list of rounds."

"Sure thing," she chirped. She turned back to the computer and accessed the main patent data base.

Quentin smoothed out a stray thread on her navy blue pencil skirt as she waited impatiently. Her confusion had come from the fact that not once had she been required to tend Room 384. In fact, she had been specifically told to stay away.

"Attending doctor is Dr. Tanner." She suddenly frowned and looked though a few different documents but came back to the main registry, still looking confused.

"What's the problem?"

"Well, there doesn't seem to be any patient records, like at all. It just says 'Room 384. Attending Doctor: Dr. Tanner'."

"I see. I'll sort it out with Dr. Hanson and let you know when its fixed in the system."

With a brief but pleasant farewell on both parts, Quentin checked the next room on her list. Room 266 – patient: Heather Fielding. Quentin headed towards the stairs ascended to the second floor of the cardiology ward. There was an elevator but there was no way she was getting in that death box.

The short walk up the stairs towards the private rooms was a much needed break as her mind kept whirring with what she had just heard.

First, why was Dr. Tanner the attending doctor for a patient in the ICU? As Head of the ER, he was not meant to be the overseer for patients in other wards. When patients were shifted through the ER to other wards, a new doctor was assigned to take their case.

Secondly, why was there no patient information in the data base? Sure there were the cases where a person was under police protection or in police custody, in which case the file would just say SEALED. Simple enough, no?

So why was this one blank?

And last, why the hell was an intensive care patient on her chart? Sure, as a newbie it was only expected that she would be jerked around between different wards and departments. Even though she was almost a fully qualified Cardiologist, she understood that her Bachelor of Surgery put her as the easy choice to fill in gaps in different wards.

What honestly confused the fuck out of her was that on a day where she was rostered on for the Cardio ward, why was she listed to check out an intensive care patient? A non-existent one at that?

Before she knew it she was entering the private room of Heather Fielding. Taking a deep breath, Quentin pushed it to the back of her mind to sort out over a glass of red. For now, she plastered a cheerful smile on her face.

"Mrs Fielding, how are you feeling today?"

~T.A.C.~

It had been difficult to keep an eye on her the last week. She was a week into her rotation and seemed to be working almost doubles nearly every single day. She was rarely home and when she was, she was sleeping or too deep in her house to get a clear look.

To make matters worse, she was always either up in the Cardio ward or stuck in the ER, neither of which were places he had a viable reason to be visiting. But he had his ways.

Her skin had seemed to dull slightly over the last two weeks. Since the fire and those _bikers_ he had been careful to keep most of his investigating and observing to late afternoon, dusk and night time. Upon checking her schedule he was able to adjust his own hours to coincide with hers, allowing him to watch her make her way home and remain unnoticed.

He was most concerned about the fading patterns. _How_ could it be _happening?_ It wasn't _possible!_ He remembered the anger that had surged through his veins, the utter rage. He had clutched at his crushed pack of smokes even tighter than usual, feeling at least three break in his haste to remove one. He growled at the broken sticks.

He could feel the anger returning as he replayed the memory, almost replicating it as he stuck his left hand into his trouser pocket and felt around for his lighter. Meanwhile his right hand reached inside his back pocket and secured the new deck he had purchased just that morning.

He hissed as he realised he had lost his lighter. The second one in two weeks. Of course, he didn't _need_ the American Patriot zippo, but he liked it. It was a symbol, one he felt the need to uphold.

Sticking the packet back into his pocket, he crossed the street to the service station. Every single bay was full and he frowned as he saw the line of travellers and motorists, waiting to pay for fuel and the meagre snacks that were probably out of date. He had _never_ seen the gas station so busy.

He would just have to suck it up.

~T.A.C.~

Dr. Tanner was a short, nervous man who seemed to jump at the smallest sound. When no one was looking he was constantly out the back for a quick cigarette to try and calm his nerves but it seemed that the bigger his habit got, the more nervous he became.

He ran an aged hand through his thinning hair, cringing when he saw a few lose strands come away on his hand. Just as he was about to go back outside for another fag he spotted Mary Steinborough coming down the hall towards him. She noticed him at the same time and froze.

He stopped on the spot and from opposite ends of the corridor they just stared. He couldn't help but smirk at her, the man he once was shining through the nervous exterior. Even from this distance he could see her start to shake. Her hand, now minus the flat silver band, unconsciously touched the base of her throat.

As if out of nowhere, that new doctor, _Doctor Faulkner_, came around the corner from behind Mary, breaking the tension in the hallway. She slowed down as she noticed the standoff but Mary quickly regained her composure and continued down the hallway towards him, Faulkner following slowly behind.

He felt his nerves returning. That new doctor made him anxious, even more so as she slowly walked passed him, glancing straight in his eyes with an untrusting, inquisitive gaze. He looked at the ground and left the corridor as quickly as possible.

He couldn't be certain whether the look had been her curiosity of the situation between Dr. Steinborough and himself or if she had looked into that extra room he had added onto her rounds. He knew she was sharp; she had achieved surgeon status at the age of twenty-five so he knew she wasn't just another oblivious, arrogant fuckwit of a doctor. Nothing like that Dr. Hall. Man wouldn't be able to run a ward if his life depended on it.

What Hall didn't know was that it probably _did._

What Tanner _didn't _know, was if Faulkner was aware just who was pulling _her_ strings?

It was enough to push him over the edge and out the back door for one more cigarette.

The pack was crisp and neat, still a perfect prism with sharp edges and smooth plastic. He pulled out his lighter, shined each night to maintain its lustre, and flicked it three times, ignoring each flame until the third erupted. Within a matter of seconds, sweet, soothing smoke filled his tar riddled lungs and began to calm the shakes.

Dr. Tanner wasn't stupid. He knew that in a matter of seconds, his shakes and his nerves would be worse than they were to begin with. But that sweet relief for those few seconds was worth the trouble.

Worth _all_ the trouble.

~T.A.C.~

Happy was a man of few words. He preferred to keep most things to himself unless they were important and the club needed to be aware. Otherwise, he was happy to gather the facts and come to a conclusion before he worried his brothers over things they didn't need to stress over.

This was _not_ one of those times, and yet, he didn't want to admit that he couldn't quite work it out.

Along with Bowie, he had broken into the morgue of Tacoma General Hospital under the guise of visiting Donut who had gone in for a slipped disk. Of course there was no slip disk but who needed to know that?

They were surprised to find that only one name from their personal list of deceased was listed but got to work anyway and quickly located the body. Bowie pulled out a small digital camera and took shots of the injuries. Even Happy had to admit that whoever had done this was one sick fucker.

Making sure his gloves were on tight and no fibres were loose, he carefully rolled the body to one side and held it as Bowie took snaps of the back. It was just as bad, if not worse than the anterior.

Just as they were laying the body back into position and pulling up the sheet, noise could be heard coming down the hall way. The squeak of wheels on a gurney was getting louder and voices were beginning to echo through the small gap they had left between the door and the frame.

"-the latest rumour is that she had a secret relationship with Keifland and that he's actually some crazy man and tried to kill her!" a female with a bubble gum Texan accent was chatting away excitedly.

That caught their attention.

"No way! I know that Tanner is a creepy bastard but he's too nervous to do anything like that. I don't know how the hell he got Head of the ER," came a second female voice.

"It's always the quiet ones you need to look out for, Marg, everyone knows that."

Happy smirked. He could testify to that.

"Hold up, I need to check the morgue registry, Dr. Forbes wants to see how many are being transferred for the Thursday run to the city morgue. I heard one is going to the Feds-"

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Didn't you say that door is coded?"

The problem with vigilance and paranoia. Sure it helped them detect _other_ people but it seemed that this instance it was going to get _them_ detected.

"Yeah…"

Happy sighed as he pulled the silencer out of his pocket and began to screw it on as the door began to open further. He didn't come here to add to the already full morgue. They had a job to do and it was fitting that they were only going to have trouble doing it.

"Nurse Margret! I need you and Nurse Jessica to attend the ER. All the doctors are busy, we just need some spare hands for casts and stitches."

"Oh! Of course!"

And the door was closed.

~T.A.C.~

Sitting around the table at church, Lorca watched each of his brothers reactions to the photographs laid out in front of them. Bowie had taken the camera to the office of their legitimate business, Tacoma Automotive Repairs, and printed all 35 photos on A4 sheets.

He stretched his hand out and waited as the photos were gathered and passed towards him. Quickly flicking through, he picked out the most important shots, narrowing it down to five photographs. Before he could dismiss Church his pre-paid rang out. The shrill noise only reinforced how thick the tension had built.

"Yeah," he answered tiredly.

As he listened he slowly ran a hand through his short dark hair. As if anything else could possibly go wrong. He hung up and let the phone drop to the table, this time running both hands over his face before dropping both flat in front of him and giving the rest of the table a hard stare.

"Quinn and some of the Nomad boys have been taken to Tacoma General. Mayans."

He didn't need to say any more.

"Who called?"

He stared at Happy. Why was that significant? Why did it matter?

"My niece, Ana. Just moved up here."

"Doctor?"

"Nurse."

Lorca watched as Happy smirked at him, clearly knowing something he didn't. Some days he wondered whether the man of few words would be better suited to President. As Enforcers went, Happy was your go-to man. But he always seemed to be one step ahead of everyone else, himself included.

Smart, crazy bastard.

"She's our in."

Lorca connected the dots. As much as he preferred to keep Ana as far from this shit as possible – after all, his wife would happily shoot him if her only sisters baby was caught in the cross fire – she was definitely a safer route when they needed to break in.

"So it would seem."

**A/N: another chapter :) Soooooo… I know this is a bit filler-ish but I'm still trying to get all the significant characters in and all the small little pieces that are necessary in the future so yeah. Review? I know it's not much but trust me, it will set up a lot of things in the future.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Enjoy and review! :)**

_Chapter five: Stress & Terror & Fear Are My Drug._

"Clear!"

Quentin didn't have time to register her surroundings as she quickly stepped back in and began pumping. Thirty compressions later, two deflations of the Bag Valve Mask and still no response.

"1 milligram Epinephrine, IV!"

She grabbed the appropriate package and tore it open, quickly uncapping it and injecting it via the IV tube. Depositing the needleless syringe into a plastic disposal bin, Quentin took up her place in the open space at the patients head and secured the BVM for the next round of CPR.

One compression, one breath. One pulse, one breath.

She deflated the BVM twice as required in steady, deep squeezes, trying desperately to ignore the piercing flat line on the monitor. This would be the second stabbing victim she had lost in the nearly three weeks she had been an employee at Tacoma General. At least this time Mr. ICU – a.k.a Dr. Forbes – was free of any family emergencies.

"Clear!"

The body gave a lifeless, electrically catalysed jerk.

"1 milligram Epinephrine, direct injection to vein!"

This time a nurse closer to the tray retrieved the packet, racing off before the command was complete, and was just about to plunge the drug into the IV tube.

"No!"

Quentin grabbed her arm. She looked affronted but Quentin merely passed her the BVM and took the needle from her incapable clutches. Wrenching open the second draw, she pulled out a 7 cm fine needle piece and attached it to the barrel. She kept the cap on until she reached the patient before effectively injecting the adrenaline straight into a vein in his left wrist – a direct flow to the heart.

Quentin watched on as one nurse continued compressions while another readied the BVM. But it never came to that.

Forbes held up a hand as he looked at the man helplessly. After an hour and a half, he took a deep breath before looking to Quentin.

"Time of death," she looked at the clock behind Forbes' head, "18:23."

He nodded at the nurses to switch of the machines before stalking out of the room, only pausing to dispose of his gloves and send one last regretful look at the gurney.

The nurses began to clear away the tubing and turn off all the equipment but Quentin stepped in and placed a hand gently on the shoulder of the nurse she had grabbed earlier.

"I'll finish up," she smiled sadly and was surprised to see the nurse nod and smile back. Both left the room quickly and Quentin understood perfectly well why they were in such a hurry.

The room was toxic. Literally.

Quentin had finished her rounds for the Cardiology ward almost on time and with only the mystery patient in Room 384 to check on, she was in a surprisingly chipper mood. There had been no unusual incidents since the fire to worry herself with and seeming as her house was fully unpacked and home like, she had only work to focus on.

She hadn't even seen the bikers again despite the fact her friendly neighbour was really the head honcho. Though looking at the corpse in front of her, she guessed that maybe they would never really be completely gone from her life as long as she was in Tacoma.

The stench alone had been enough to clear the room as quickly as possible. The smell of diarrhoea and piss mixed with vomit and the uniquely revolting odour of sulfur seemed to cling to the air.

The high pitched ping of the monitor cut through her thoughts once more. She hadn't realised it had yet to be turned off. She quickly flicked the switch and watched as the electric green line faded into nothing. The sudden quiet was nothing short of fucking creepy, in Quentin's opinion, but it did allow her mind to finally take the time to observe the scene in front of her.

Lifeless blood shot blue eyes stared unseeingly up at the clean white ceiling while his mouth hung open slightly. She could see two rows of rotted, yellow teeth between the mutated flesh of his gums, tongue, lips and the surrounding skin. A mixture of congealed, blood-filled vomit trailed down his chin, across his torso and lap from when he had been sitting up.

It was difficult to discern what was bloodied vomit and what was real blood from the multiple lacerations covering his entire body. Upon closer inspection, the lacerations – no doubt from a knife – were not just random blows. They seemed to methodical, some deep and others shallow, all precise straight lines and others perfectly curved.

She had seen this before, seen the same type of injuries.

Quentin continued to remove the remaining tubes – breathing, intravenous, oxygen under the nose – when she spotted something out of place. She quickly placed the tubes in the large medical sink and walked back to the patient to pull up the sheet, all the while keeping a close eye on the small bottle as if it would disappear the moment she lost eye contact.

She walked around the bed once more and slowly walked backwards until she was standing in front of the door with her back to it. Looking at the bed she blinked until she was positive it was really there.

This time she was unafraid to drop eye contact. She deposited her gloves in the sanitary bin and grabbed a fresh pair from the wall and a plastic medical bag from one of the lower cupboards. She crouched and looked at the structure of the medical gurney.

"Now _you_ should not be here," she mumbled as she pulled the bottle from its position, wedged between three stainless steel beams which crossed each other at a diagonal to form a miniature cradle.

She turned the bottle around until she could read the label. Epinephrine. What was a bottle of adrenaline doing under a stab victim's bed?

She tucked into the plastic slip and sealed it before going to the small basin, removing her gloves once more and washing her hands. Just as she was leaving the room, the one person she wanted to talk to ran into her.

_Really_ ran into her.

"Oh dear!"

The last person she had ever expected to show her any type of concern, and even go so far as to help her up off the floor, was Health Administrator Karen Hanson – even if she was the person Quentin was on her way to pay a visit to.

"My, are you alright? I was told you were still in the room. Two patients in three weeks, not a good start, now, is it?"

_And she's back._

Quentin was sure there had never been such a bad time for Maggie May to suddenly reappear.

Before Quentin could even respond, "Oh but that's not your fault dear, it's been an unfortunate couple of weeks."

_And the world surprises me again_, she thought. _Hmm, I must have a lot of good karma saved up._

"I was just on my way to see you, do you mind if we take this to your office?"

~T.A.C.~

When the 'soothing' opera was suddenly shut off, Quentin took it as a bad sign.

HA Karen was sitting at her desk, elbows on the table and fingers steeped in front of her chin. Her glasses had been pushed up onto the top of her mop of shoulder length brown hair and her eyes focussed on an unknown spot on the wall somewhere through Quentin.

Yeah, definitely a bad sign.

"And you said you found this _under_ the patient's bed?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Not on the floor but in the framework?"

Definitely rhetorical.

The bag with the bottle in question sat in the middle of the laminate wood top. Both women looked at it with a thoughtful expression – Dr. Hanson wondering who was stealing from the hospital and Quentin wondering when she could get home and how much trouble this would inevitably bring her.

"The patient was a stabbing victim with severe lacerations to 90% of his body, adrenaline has been shown in some studies to help with the management of such severe pain and in some cases even accelerate healing," she suggested, purely hoping to get home and into the shower that much faster.

"Oh, and are you an advocate for this form of treatment?" she raised an eyebrow and Quentin easily understood what she was implying.

"Ma'am, with all due respect, I'm a Cardiologist. Not a scientist. To be perfectly honest, no I am not an advocate for adrenal therapy but as a surgeon and a medical expert I find it is beneficial to be aware of upcoming theories in case patients have questions about alternative forms of treatment. By having researched these theories, I can steer my patients clear of any pointless or harmful therapies."

For once Hanson looked speechless.

"You are sharper than I gave you credit for," she mused. "Very well, thank you for bringing this to me, I have no doubt that this was, in fact, one of the ICU staff's idea of being helpful and I will be briefing all personnel on the importance of _procedure_."

The discussion tapered off at that point and Quentin found herself back in the Cardiology within ten minutes of leaving her office.

"Oh, Quentin!"

Quentin spun around and saw the blonde nurse – Amy, Amanda, Andrea? – run up to her and throw her arms around Quentin's shoulders.

_Great_, she thought bitterly, _not only was this girl stunning she was also 5 fucking 11 feet tall. Super._

"I heard what happened over in ICU! Are you okay? Do you need to sit down? We can talk if you want?"

Quentin stepped back and was ashamed to admit she had to look up to see the girls face.

"Oh, I'm fine," she clipped awkwardly. Trying to look anywhere but at the gentle giant. She really was fine. Sure, she was upset and disappointed with herself for losing a second patient in three weeks – her first three weeks at that hospital, no less – but she was honestly perfectly okay otherwise.

"_Okay_," she trailed off uncertainly. "Well, here, let me give you my number so you can call if you need to. Even if it's just to have a few drinks." She watched as the girl – Ana, she suddenly remembered – jogged over to the nurse's desk and jotted something on a small post-it note before folding it and handing it to Quentin.

Quentin looked at it and saw it was her home number and mobile number. As much as Quentin was a solitary creature and probably would never even use it, she was touched that this stranger actually _genuinely_ cared about her welfare.

It was… unusual. _Uncomfortable_, but sorta nice.

"Thank you," Quentin looked at her and hoped she showed just how sincerely she meant it. It was a rarity; she wanted it to at least be communicated properly. She smiled reluctantly back when Ana smiled happily.

"Anytime."

~T.A.C.~

Things hadn't quite gone according to plan. There were meant to be no witnesses. No facts. No evidence. And yet all of those things had appeared. He was frustrated and it was showing through his actions.

The cigarette dangled from his lips dangerously as his mind processed and analysed his actions. But he had taken care of it. That's what Doctors did, they salvaged and accomplished what others couldn't. What others didn't have the mental capacity to achieve.

He tossed the filter to the ground and stomped the last glow out with his boot. _He wouldn't take any chances this time_, he thought as he picked up the butt and tossed it off the roof. He had come prepared this time with his night vision binoculars on hand and a brand new Bic lighter which he used to light another Commander.

She had returned home a few hours ago and after showering with the lights dimmed and retiring to bed almost instantly, he didn't have the opportunity to really observe her tonight. The following her home and tracing her movements only served to learn her habits but it didn't give him that personal insight he _craved_.

And to make matters worse, the patterns had almost faded into non-existence.

But he had an idea. He would _make_ her see. And when _she_ could see, he knew they would return and she would seek _him _out.

She would _see_.

~T.A.C.~

Saturday morning and Quentin remembered that she had her scheduled day off for her two week rotation on. But after nearly three weeks of early mornings and late nights, Quentin found herself stumbling into the shower at near six in the morning. By the time she showered and decided that she was better off just slipping back into her loose cotton pants and sleep t-shirt, it was still only 6.30 AM.

Making her way down the stairs was near suicidal but she got there, finding her glasses on the cherry wood coffee table in the upstairs parlour and a hair tie on the top post of the stairs. She replaced the filter and rinsed a clean coffee mug before starting the coffee machine and looking for a pair of flip flops.

She found her thongs by the front door and slipped them on, opening the door and heading down the driveway to retrieve the morning paper. Sometimes she just liked to pretend she was a normal citizen who actually gave a damn about the wider world.

Today she felt as if she actually did, what with all the problems of the last month or so finally laid to rest.

But as she neared the end of her driveway she realised that maybe that wasn't quite the case.

Chalk had never been so fucking terrifying.

They began partially up her driveway where the hedges lined so she knew that these were aimed specifically at her. At first she thought maybe they were just children's drawings, good religious kids with nothing better to do trying their hand at being rebellious but there was something hauntingly familiar about the lines and curves that caused chills to erupt over her spine.

But why? Why were they so familiar?

The sense of deja vu was overwhelming but she sucked it up and continued down to almost the street where her rolled up paper lied undisturbed in its protective plastic. The chalk drawings seemed to tumble out of her driveway, across the sidewalk and out onto the road. All different colours, all different symbols.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye and snapped her head to the right where she saw her neighbour, Mr Head Biker Man, looking on with a blank stare. She could see his eyes drop to the road in front of her and back to her face. Without breaking eye contact he pulled a mobile phone out of the inner pocket of his leather vest and clearly used speed dial.

He was too far away for her to eavesdrop so she nodded solemnly in greeting and without waiting to see if he would respond, turned on her heel and returned to her house.

She needed her _fucking_ coffee with a few shots of fucking _whiskey._

~T.A.C.~

Lorca watched as the doctor nodded her acknowledgement and disappeared behind the hedge of her driveway. She wasn't even a club woman and yet she knew when a sign of respect was necessary. If she hadn't almost burned down the east wing of his house he might of liked her.

"What?"

"Next time I'll cut your balls of and give them to Dana to wear as earrings. Show some fucking respect." Bowies Old Lady, Dana, was a fireball. All the Son's, Old Ladies, hang arounds and sweetbutts had a healthy respect for the fiery red head. All except maybe his own Old Lady, Josie, but she was Head Bitch so that was to be expected.

Bowie's thoughts seemed to have travelled the same path as Lorca heard him gulp audibly from the other end of the line. Fear was good for the club, even if it came from their women. Kept them strong, alert and well aware of their weaknesses.

"Now, I need you and Hap to come take a look at something. Bring those photos of Erikson. And send Donut and Canter to relive Koz at the hospital. I want an update before I go to see Quinn."

He pressed the cancel button and looked back at the street. People were starting to appear sporadically – some retrieving their newspapers, others watering plants, children starting the morning outside.

Knowing it would take at least twenty minutes before Bowie arrived, Lorca went back inside. After all, Josie would have _his_ balls for earrings if he wasn't there when she woke up without having told her beforehand. The price of married life.

~T.A.C.~

After two cups of coffee – unfortunately no whiskey – and updating herself on current world events, Quentin went into one of the spare rooms of the hallway from the kitchen that she had set up as an office space.

As she waited for her laptop to power up she pushed papers and books around the desk top until she found a notepad under all the other crap. After a similar search she came up with three pens (the first two didn't work) and began to compile a list.

_bananas_

_apples_

_okay, just fruit_

_and vegetables_

_bread_

_coffee_

_meat for dinners_

_muesli bars_

_Yeah_, her intentions with the list hadn't been for _groceries_ but as her only day of for the next week, what better time?

She pulled of the sheet and tucked it into the pocket of her sleep t-shirt and began again with what she had initially set out to record.

_diarrhoea _

_vomiting blood_

_extreme contractions and flexion of muscles (notably bladder)_

_rotten teeth from accelerated decay not prolonged_

_superficial facial burns - in and around mouth_

_superficial hand burns_

_odour of sulfur _

Looking at her list she couldn't come up with any possible instigator of those symptoms in relation to the Epinephrine she had found. Like she had told Dr. Hanson, she _didn't_ believe in the whole adrenaline craze that some scientists were praising to be as significant as finding the cure for cancer. But the thing was, if they were claiming unique healing qualities, why would it be the instigator?

It wasn't, that's why.

Bringing up Google, she typed the symptoms into the search bar and felt the irony pretty heavily as she clicked search. She most definitely was _not_ feeling _lucky_. Plenty of pages filled the screen.

_Parasites and Worms._

_Sulfur and Flowers._

_The Gut Foundation._

_Gastronomy for Home and Work._

_Veterinarian Advice._

She slowly removed specific symptoms such as the 'accelerated decay' while leaving the 'rotten teeth' and the 'superficial hand burns'.

Eventually, after removing all case specific information, she came upon one plausible explanation and it didn't make her feel any better at all.

_Effects of Swallowing Sulfuric Acid_.

~T.A.C.~

Before Bowie arrived at 18 Breech Avenue, Lorca received a call from the man himself. Less than fifteen minutes later Lorca was sitting at the head of the table, the doors to the Chapel slamming shut as Kozik stormed in with an uncomfortable mix of anxiety and rage on his face.

"There was another Nord brought to the hospital. Room next to Quinn. He died yesterday afternoon," he paused looking around the table from his seat to the left of Lorca. As Sergeant- At-Arms, he was the one most relied on to remain calm and handle the tough situations. If he wasn't coping, then they were in for one hell of a shit fight.

"Why are we only hearing this now?"

"No one knew who was in that room. Not even the doctors. Ana said that some lady doctor was scheduled to check on him but the patient file was sealed. Found him having some type of seizure or something. Died in the room sometime around six."

"Shit!"

More dead fucking Nords, the fucking Mayans and a Nomad Prez and his brothers in the fucking hospital.

"When I heard I got Ana to take me down to the morgue, get a few pictures for the scrap book," Lorca shot him a glare but he continued, oblivious, "but wouldn't you know it, it blew up. Oh, and Donut picked this up outside the Nords doorway."

He tossed the shiny square onto the carved reaper.

~T.A.C.~

It had been risky deleting patient information. It had been even riskier leaving himself as the referenced attending doctor, a rookie mistake he had called it. But he still completed the task. News had travelled and he was more than aware that he had been successful.

The warning kept replaying through his head as he made his way down to the basement level earlier that morning.

_There are eyes everywhere; in places you would never expect. Make the statement, then destroy it._

Destroy it.

And destroy it he did.

The only problem had been the missing bottle of Epinephrine. As an ER doctor he had no business being in the ICU, even if _his_ patient was residing there, leaving him no reason to interfere with the procedure of resuscitation, however futile it was.

It was only likely that it had become dislodged and rolled somewhere either during the rush or during transportation to the basement levels. Either way, it was a minor issue for such a grand scheme magnificently executed.

Keifland Tanner was awfully proud of himself and felt a congratulatory cigarette was in order. He patted his lab coat with a bandaged hand for his lighter and frowned when he came up empty.

Oh well, there were matches in nearly every draw, he would find them.

**A/N: a quickly published chapter! Hoorah! I'm sorry there hasn't been any Tig for a while but right now you can understand why he is a little bit absent but I promise, he **_**will**_** be in the next chapter!**

**Also, we have reached 1000 views! Well, technically 1,223 but who's counting? Pfft, not me!**

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, it makes my week, month even, and is honestly getting me through my final exams so cheers and keep up the good work!**

**Until next time!**


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